June 15th 2016

·
secretly
····crossing the road—a mid-afternoon
········shower
·
·
Less than a week left of spring and I feel just as I did at the end of winter, ready for new kigo (even if I’m making them up). Standing back of my wildflower garden, the stretch of yard I don’t’t mow, I could build my little Mozart Hütte. Wouldn’t take long. Basho, without family or attachments, wandered Japan’s narrow roads and took to cabins built for him by admiring students and patrons. That’s the life for a poet. Disciples. Adulation. Patrons.
·
sanding—
····the clapboards don’t care if I’m a great
········poet
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222 June 15th 2016 | bottlecap
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3 responses

  1. I have two interpretations:

    1. The old clapboards care only for what kind of job you do on them.

    2. The old clapboards are among a larger group that doesn’t care about poets. “The sink doesn’t care, the tires don’t care…”

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